


Waiting Game

by Naralanis



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: A little comfort, F/F, a little hurt, established Cissamione, mention of romione, this is just word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17821274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Summary: In an unusual situation, Narcissa and Ron find themselves playing some chess.





	Waiting Game

The heavy double doors slammed against their own hinges with his aggressive, panicked entrance. A few Muggle nurses sent disapproving looks his way, but he did not have the emotional capacity in this moment to acknowledge them. He walked briskly away, worry consuming him from within. 

Ron spotted her on one of the plastic chairs of the corridor’s waiting area. She looked so much like any other Muggle, with her blue jeans and green jumper, that he nearly missed her entirely. But he would be able to recognize that hair anywhere. 

Narcissa spotted him as he approached; she moved quickly to wipe at the tear-tracks that sullied her cheeks. Ron swallowed, wishing he didn’t know how bad things had to be for Narcissa to look that broken. 

“Where is she?” he breathed out, his voice hoarse with worry. “ _How_ is she? Can we see her? How did you get here?”

His questions came out in one quick, strangled breath he could not control. He felt like his heart was about to beat its way up his throat and out of his body. 

Narcissa appeared calm, but Ron could plainly see she was held together by a mere thread. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, and her hands had waddled up pieces of tissue paper in a rare, worrying display of extreme anxiety. 

“They... they phoned me.” She shook her head, correcting herself before Ron had a chance to interject. “They phoned the house.”

Ron tried to picture the great Narcissa Black operating a house-phone. The only thing that made it believable was the fact that Hermione had been the one to teach her, and she had obviously succeeded—she had taught him as well. Which was how he came to be where he was. 

“They phoned the house and... and they told me.” Narcissa continued, her gaze not quite meeting his. “I apparated to an alley nearby and just ran here.” Her eyes suddenly widened, as if she had just realized whom she was speaking to. “How did  _you_ get here?” she gasped, moving to stand rather quickly. “Rose! Does she know? Where’s Rose?!”

Ron put his hands on Narcissa’s shoulders, trying to calm her down. 

“Rose is with Harry and Ginny. She doesn’t know; Harry and Ginnyhave an idea, but I haven’t told them much.” He sighed deeply, attempting to collect himself. “They phoned me too. I was out, so they left a message on my machine. I came as soon as I heard.”

Narcissa sunk back into her chair, looking simultaneously relieved and defeated. 

Ron sat next to her, struggling to process exactly what was happening, what  _had_ happened, where he was, and with whom. He turned to look at Narcissa, impressed with the strength the woman showed and terrified by how tenuously she held on to it. 

Anything after he heard the message on his answering machine was a blur in his memory. All he had heard were the words  _ex-wife, accident,_ and  _Royal London Hospital._ He had immediately dropped his daughter off at Harry’s and run to the hospital as if his life depended on it. 

He didn’t know why he hadn’t expected Narcissa to be there. Perhaps the mere thought of her in a Muggle hospital was not one his brain could quite process. Yet here she was, blending in. Hermione had taught her as well as she had taught him. Hell, Hermione was the reason why he had a telephone now, even after they separated. Who would have thought Narcissa would have been so accepting of such lessons?

“How...” he began, unsure how to tactfully phrase his question. “How is she?”

Narcissa released a worried breath. “I... I’m not certain. The Healer—I mean, the doctor said... he said the operation could take a while.” She turned an anxious gaze towards Ron. “That... that can’t be good, can it? How long do Muggle operations take?”

“I don’t know.” Ron answered honestly. “How did they even know to phone us? Has the Ministry been notified?”

Narcissa shrugged her shoulders. “Hermione always carries her driving licence with her. I suppose that is where they got the information from. As for the Ministry, they have been notified.” She sucked in a breath. “They cannot intervene as of now. They’re on standby.”

Ron nodded in understanding, also feeling rather foolish of how little he knew about this part of Hermione’s life. He didn’t even know she had a driving licence. He didn’t know how long Muggle operations took. He didn’t know anything at all. All he could do was sit there with his ex-wife's partner and wait.

“What if...” Narcissa whispered hoarsely, her voice threatening to break with the tears she held at bay with such difficulty. “What if she dies in there? What if there were something we could have done, but the Muggles...”

Her shoulders shook with sudden sobs. Ron did not know what else to do but to envelop Narcissa in an awkward side hug as she cried into his lapels. 

“Hey now,” he said as he patted her shoulder stiffly. “It’ll be alright. Muggles... what would Hermione say, eh? They might not have magic, but they’re smart. They’ve done amazing things without needing it.” 

He said it, but there was no conviction in his tone. Ron didn’t exactly doubt Muggles, but he certainly wished they had some magical help right about now. He felt completely and utterly useless as Narcissa sobbed against him for long, excruciating moments. 

“Tell you what,” he said after her crying had subsided to soft, repressed whimpers. “The Doctor said it would be a few hours still, yeah? Let’s...” he looked around, desperate for something, anything that could serve as a distraction. There were boxes of food—vending machines, he remembered Hermione telling him once, but he had no Muggle money. 

His eyes fell onto a little portable chessboard, forgotten on one of the side tables piled high with old magazines. 

“Here. Do you play chess?”

* * *

 

Ron set up the board on an empty chair between them. That meant they had to turn awkwardly to move their pieces, but Narcissa seemed to welcome the distraction. He was not about to suggest she go home and rest because he knew he would not want to do the same in her shoes. He didn’t want to do the same in his own,  _ex-husband_ shoes. 

“Pawn to F4” he called softly. “Oh, bugger, I keep forgetting,” he groaned as he physically moved one of his pawns to take the one Narcissa had carelessly left open.

Narcissa moved her bishop absent-mindedly. She had not bothered to wipe at the tear tracks on her cheeks again. Ron moved his queen. 

“Check.”

Narcissa moved her king, and silence reigned for long moments as they played, fraught with fear and tension. Fear of the worst, fear of the unknown that happened beyond the door to the operating room, fear of the unfamiliar environment neither of them wished to leave for the sake of Hermione Granger. 

Despite all of that, Ron felt more at ease playing chess. It was something he was good at, it was something that, while requiring a fair bit of concentration and attention, came naturally to him. He could only hope that it distracted Narcissa a little, that it helped her as much as it helped him. 

“This takes all the fun out of chess” Narcissa quipped after a little while and Ron had captured her wandering bishop. 

Ron laughed. “I like ordering the little buggers around too.”

She smiled as she advanced another of her pawns, almost randomly. “I rather like the destruction. Makes for a more dramatic game.”

Ron nodded his agreement, taking a tower Narcissa had left unattended. 

“Hermione told me you were quite good.” She said. 

Ron could not help a smile, feeling the warmth of pride in his belly. Praise by Hermione Granger was hard-earned and worth it. Anything—everything the brunette had given him had been worth it, from a compliment in chess to the daughter they shared. 

“The only thing I could beat her in.” He said, ignoring the tears that began to pool at his lids. Narcissa tactfully ignored them as well. “Not that she wouldn’t try, but somehow, chess was the one thing Hermione couldn’t quite surpass me at,” Ron laughed, reliving memories of the games they played at their brand new flat, by the fireside, on nothing but a rug when their furniture had not been delivered. Of devastating defeats Hermione had suffered during late nights when an unborn Rose kept her mother awake with kicking and nausea, and of even more devastating near-victories when he had playfully let her think she was winning for the entire game, only to reveal his true intentions when she least expected. 

“She is quite something.” Narcissa commented weakly, losing another tower. Ron thought Hermione might be thrilled to play against Narcissa—perhaps she had finally won a game. 

“She is,” he agreed. 

It was so odd,  _this,_ this situation they found themselves in. Civility was what they had between them, and to Ron, that had been more than enough for the entirety of their... reacquaintance. 

He still remembered with embarrassment the day he found out. Their divorce had  _just_ been finalised, and not even a day after Hermione graced the social pages of the  _Daily Prophet_ with a familiar witch on her arm. That fight had been worse than all the fights that led to the divorce,  _combined._ His reaction embarrassed him greatly now, but then he had been a bit too immature to process the utter dejection he had felt. 

A rebound, he had told himself. Narcissa was Hermione’s rebound; someone as different from him, to what Hermione was used to, as was humanly possible. It wouldn’t last more than a few weeks, he had assured himself. 

Then it lasted a year. They had more fights. Ron didn’t want Narcissa to raise his daughter. There were ugly threats, on both his side and Hermione’s. His mother had been the one to whack some sense into his head—literally. Another year passed, and then another, and suddenly his little Rosie had taken to calling Narcissa ‘mummy’. 

And that was when he knew it was pointless to fight it. 

“Check.” Narcissa said, snapping him out of his memories. Ron captured the queen that threatened his king in one swift move. Yes, Hermione had definitely won a game or two against Narcissa. 

“I’m sorry I was such an arsehole for so long.” He suddenly said, not quite knowing what spurred him to say it in the first place. Perhaps it was the worry for Hermione that Narcissa carried so openly

Narcissa stopped whatever move she was about to make. Her blue eyes met Ron and he could, for the first time, see the depth of emotion Narcissa carried for Hermione. He had known before—after he got over his own issues—but now he could see, and oh, how clearly he could see that Narcissa truly, truly loved Hermione. 

“What I mean to say is... I’m glad she has you. Rosie too.” He said, feeling a bit foolish but not caring. All the time he spent resenting Hermione’s newfound love out of sheer jealousy made him feel like a supreme idiot. 

“And I’m glad she has you.” Narcissa said, surprising Ron. “She loves you, Ronald. You’re one of her best friends, you’re Rose’s father. I...” she paused, as if finding the words did not come easily to her. “I never wanted to erase any of that.”

“I get it.” Ron assured her, because he did, at least now. “I didn’t at first, but that’s on me. You two...” he sighed. There would always be a tinge of painful nostalgia for what things could have been if he and Hermione had tried a little harder at it. That nostalgia, however, was largely overshadowed by gratitude. 

Gratitude for Narcissa being there when Hermione needed her most, including now. For the love she had for Hermione, for the love she held for Rosie, for the love she had to spare to all of Hermione’s nieces and nephews and family. For the willingness Narcissa had to do the things Ron should have done. For staying when Ron didn’t. 

“Ms. Narcissa Black? Are you here for Hermione Granger?”

Narcissa stood like a shot as a Muggle doctor approached them. He looked tired, but he smiled. 

“Yes?” Narcissa gasped, eyes brimming with new tears. Ron also stood, unable to contain the expectation, the tension, the hope. 

The doctor’s smile widened. “Your wife’s alright; we’ve just finished with her. She’s being transferred to a room and you’ll be able to see her shortly.” He pointed at the nurse’s station not far from where they stood. “Nurse Evans can help you find her whenever you’re ready.”

As soon as the doctor walked a fair distance away, Ron released an uncontainable yelp of relief, earning another glare from the nurses nearby. Narcissa jumped in surprise, and nearly gasped in shock as Ron unceremoniously hugged her, lifting her by the waist and twirling them in semi-circles of unstoppable relief. 

“She’s alright! She’s alright!” he cried. Narcissa laughed, and then she cried into his shoulder again, but those were happy tears. Ron felt his own cheeks moisten with tears; he could not bring himself to care. Hermione was alright. She was safe. She was  _there._

“You go and see her,” he said, putting Narcissa down, a bit embarrassed at his outburst, not that Narcissa seemed to mind. “I’ll go get Rosie from Harry and Ginny’s; they must all be worried sick. You go see her, I’ll... I’ll come by later if it’s alright?”

Narcissa nodded, unable to contain the excitement that came with her relief. “Are you sure you don’t want to come as well?” she offered. 

“Nah,” Ron said with a smile. All in good time. “You’re her wife.”

Narcissa smiled, taking his hands and squeezing them gratefully. “Thank you, Ronald,” she whispered. “Truly. You’re...” her gaze softened. “You’re a good man.”

Ron felt himself grow as red as a tomato. He wasn’t used to compliments, period, but they were even stranger coming from Narcissa Black. He reckoned they were now past the point of mere civility. 

“Ah, ahem, don’t mention it. Just... ya know, doing my thing. Playing chess, talking nonsense.”

Narcissa’s smile widened. “It helped, tremendously. Hermione is lucky to still have you in her life.” She said sincerely. “Although...” 

Ron watched with curiosity as the Slytherin gingerly leaned over their little chessboard, moving her last remaining bishop. Her smile turned playfully smug as she patted his shoulders, beginning to walk towards the nurses’ station. He felt his jaw come unhinged as he realized what she had just done

“Check-mate.”


End file.
